


all you knead is love

by iovewords



Category: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Baking, Bread puns, F/M, Fluff, Jewish Peter Parker, Young Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:55:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25385650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iovewords/pseuds/iovewords
Summary: The dough is coming together. Peter needs more flour though. He asks, “Can you-”She’s already picking up the flour bag and pours more on top of the dough blob.“Thanks,” Peter says. He pauses and grins. “I loaf you.”“Oh my god, you loser.”Peter and MJ bake challah together.
Relationships: Michelle Jones/Peter Parker
Comments: 40
Kudos: 103





	all you knead is love

**Author's Note:**

> i made challah yesterday, and then i wrote about peter and mj making challah. 
> 
> title is from the beatles' song. imo, the cover from the film _across the universe_ is better than the original, but i'm still annoyed the soundtrack version doesn't have the "she loves you yeah yeah yeah" part at the end.

“Got the yeast?” 

“Yup.”

“Got the oil?”

“Uh. I didn’t realize we were out of vegetable oil so we just have olive oil. Do you think that’s okay?”

“I don’t know,” MJ says, as she rummages through the cabinets for a large enough bowl. “Probably?”

“The recipe says to use vegetable oil.” Peter frowns and rests his elbows on the counter as he rereads the recipe on his laptop.

“I’m sure it will be fine.”

“I just don’t want to mess this up.” There’s genuine worry in his voice, and MJ puts the bowl down and comes around the counter to place a kiss on the wrinkle between his eyebrows.

“It’ll be okay. We’re making this for ourselves,” she reminds him, giving him a reassuring smile, but he keeps frowning.

“I know. I know. But this is the first time I’m making it since I was a kid with Ben.”

The mention of his uncle is bittersweet, and it hangs in the air in their small kitchen. MJ squeezes his hand. She doesn’t need to say anything else. Through the simple gesture she communicates all of her comfort and love and understanding. 

They turn back to the recipe on screen to finish setting out the ingredients and measuring cups and spoons. They don’t have a stand mixer because they’re takeout and canned soup kind of people, but the internet says that it’s okay to do it by hand, so it’s fine.

Peter measures out the yeast and dissolves it in the water, then adds the oil. MJ cracks the eggs into a smaller bowl, adding them one at a time to the mixture so no pieces of shell get in there.

“You’re so smart,” Peter says when she explains her reasoning.

“I know,” MJ says.

She adds the sugar and salt while Peter measures the cups of flour. He pours them gradually as MJ stirs with a spoon.

Peter sprinkles flour onto the counter and dumps out the dough to knead it. He forgets to put flour on his hands first so they get all sticky and goopy.

MJ laughs at the annoyed face he makes. “You should add this to your web formula.”

“Honestly I should.”

Peter forms the dough into a ball and folds it in half and presses it flat. MJ shamelessly watches his arm muscles flex as he works. He’s her boyfriend now so she doesn’t have to hide it like she used to. God, they wasted so much time staring at and missing each other.

But the important thing is they’re here now.

The dough is coming together. Peter needs more flour though. He asks, “Can you-”

She’s already picking up the flour bag and pours more on top of the dough blob. 

“Thanks,” Peter says. He pauses and grins. “I _loaf_ you.”

“Oh my god, you loser.”

Once the dough is sufficiently kneaded and smooth like play-doh, they clean out and grease the bowl, then drop the dough back in and cover it with a damp towel. They read a tip that it will rise faster in the oven, and they’re both impatient people, so MJ puts it in there and sets a timer for an hour.

“Cool,” she says and is about to grab the dirty dishes to take them to the sink when she notices flour on Peter’s eyebrow. She steps close to him and wipes it away with her thumb. He catches hold of her wrist and leans in to kiss her, but she leans away.

“Stop, you’re getting it on me!” The bits of flour-dough on his hand are on her wrist now and some of the powder is dusting down her arm onto her sleeve.

Peter laughs and reaches his other gross hand towards her face, fingers curled claw-like and she shrieks and wriggles out of his grasp. He obviously let her escape because, duh, super strength.

“Wash your hands,” she orders and he complies, rinsing them under the water, then immediately spins around, a stupid smirk on his face.

“Now where were we?”

“No, no!” She holds up a finger and squints at him, trying to be unwaveringly firm, but she can feel a smile breaking through. “Dishes first.”

“Dishes can wait.” He runs a hand down her mid back, the other skimming her hair, fingers twisting in her curls. MJ closes her eyes as he kisses along her jaw. She wraps her arms around his neck, tilting her head as his lips drift down her throat, languid and consuming.

Eventually the desire to put her own lips to work arises and she slots her mouth against his, hot and hungry, a warm stirring in her belly as his tongue pushes into her mouth. She feels him pick her up effortlessly and set her on the counter. He steps between her legs and she locks them around his waist. 

It’s all about to get even more fun, but then MJ becomes increasingly aware that she’s sitting in the mess of flour on the counter, and there’s powder on her thighs and presumably all over the backside of her shorts. 

“Fuck,” she says, turning her head to look down, her hands retracting from under his shirt. He groans in response, trying to chase her mouth. She pushes his chest back and scooches forward until she can hop down. MJ twists as she inspects her jean shorts. Yep. Sticky gross flour everywhere. “Goddammit, it’s all over my ass.”

“You mean your buns.”

“Enough with the bread puns.”

“Sorry, are they getting _stale_?”

“I can’t stand you.”

“You love me. You _loaf_ me.” She does.

She takes off her shorts right there in the kitchen, shaking out the excess flour over the sink. “I’m going to change. Clean this up.”

“You really want to stop _now_?” He looks longingly at her bare legs. “You’re killing me, Em.”

“We already killed the moment,” she says, grumpily and heads toward their bedroom.

“So you’re saying it’s toast?” he calls after her and she flips him off without looking back.

After changing MJ comes back out and sees Peter is at the sink washing the dishes and humming something poppy and familiar. She hip checks him out of the way and runs the water over her shorts, rinsing out the flour, then takes them to the bathroom to hang dry over the shower curtain rod. 

Peter is waiting for her when she comes back to the kitchen a second time, leaning against the fridge, a picture of contentment, he’s all of hers for all of today. It’s not often they both have free Saturdays like this, what with both of them in their senior year, MJ’s internship and Peter’s extra curriculars. The empty hours of the afternoon stretch before them like an untraveled road.

The challah will take a few hours, which is both of their limits. When they told Ned and Betty they were going to make bread, Betty had asked if they were following the sourdough trend. MJ had to fight the urge to scoff. Who the fuck has time for that? 

“Come here, you,” MJ says, fondly, and Peter crosses the kitchen in seconds, his hands going to her waist as hers run through his hair. She never tires of the thrill of being with him, the rush that courses through her blood, the hammering of her heart, the warmth in her stomach that’s equal parts blissful and desperate, unable to get enough of him. It’s all the more better than he can’t get enough of her either.

They have about fifty minutes until the first rise is done, so they make their way back to the bedroom. It was silly of her to put new shorts back on.

* * *

Peter takes the bowl out of the oven with potholders. MJ scans the recipe again. 

“It says to punch it.”

“I’m assuming not in the way that I punch criminals.”

“Yeah, no. It’s supposed to remove the air bubbles and bring the yeast and sugar back together. Move, I’m doing it.”

Peter removes the towel, and the dough is looking nice, doubled in size. MJ is careful as she presses down in the dough, as it’s still hot. She takes it out and kneads it a few more times. Peter gets a knife and cuts the dough in half, then again into thirds. They each take a half to work with, rolling each piece into ropes, then plaiting them together, starting in the middle.

“Hey, this was easy,” Peter says as he pinches the ends of his loaf. “You should let me braid your hair.”

“You can try,” she replies, and picks up the baking sheets and cooking spray. 

They let the dough rise for another hour, and spend the time lounging on the couch, MJ reading aloud from _Winter Hours_ by Mary Oliver as Peter lays his head in her lap. His eyes are closed, but she knows he’s not asleep because his fingers are tracing patterns along the bare skin of her knee.

After the second rise is done, they brush the loaves with a beaten egg. When they were at the grocery store, they debated getting poppy seeds, but decided against it because they didn’t know what else they would use them for.

Peter puts the trays in the oven and sets the timer for 35 minutes. “And now we wait,” he says.

“For the last time.”

They spend the last waiting period back on the couch, but MJ decides against reading more poetry, and instead cuddles against him, her cheek smushed against his shoulder. They talk, about serious things and nothing, and then they don’t say anything. She likes that there’s never awkward silences with him, that they never feel the need to fill them with words if they don’t want to. He used to ramble when he was younger, and it’s almost funny that she never realized how obvious it was, because she was so busy liking him, convinced it was one-sided.

The scent of fresh-baked bread fills the small apartment, and she inhales deeply, breathing in the warm homey smell of the food they made together.

The challah is a beautiful golden brown when they take it out. Peter is beaming, and she knows his mind must be whirring with memories of his childhood, of standing on a kitchen chair to help Uncle Ben mix the ingredients, and at synagogue during Shabbat services. 

“Looks amazing,” she says, dropping a kiss on his shoulder and his arm snakes around her waist, pulling her close.

“It’s because you helped me.”

They give the challah about five minutes to cool, then rip off pieces and eat them, the bread hot and delicious in their mouths.

“It’s dense,” Peter says, still chewing. “It’s supposed to be light and fluffy.”

“It’s fine,” she bites off another piece.

“Maybe I used too much flour,” he muses. “Or over kneaded the dough.”

“I don’t know. But it’s a great first try. We can always make more another time.”

Peter takes pictures- the first of the challah, and the second a dumb blurry selfie when she’s not ready. He texts them to Aunt May who responds with twelve different heart and smiley emojis. He’ll drop off one of the loaves for her this evening.

As they’re clearing up the baking trays and cooling racks, Peter says, “MJ.”

“Yeah?” she looks up at him, and he’s smiling at her, big and gooey and soft, like the dough. 

“I think we should grow mould together.”

She stares at him, unimpressed and he bursts out laughing. “Come on, that one was good.”

“You’re such a loser.”

“I love you dough much.”

“ _Stop_.”

“Life is butter with you in it.”

“Shut uuuuup,” she presses a palm against his face, exasperated.

“No seriously,” he says, moving her hand away, his expression shifting to reflect his words. “We should e-loaf.”

“I can’t take you seriously when you’re making bad puns.”

“I am serious. Let’s elope. Let’s get married.”

“I…” she stares into his face, his eyes unbelievably earnest and practically glowing with adoration for her. “You’re not joking.”

“Let’s get married, MJ. I love you more than anything in this world. I want to wake up every morning next you and make you tea and watch those murder documentaries you like. I want to bake bread with you every weekend. I want to get a better, bigger apartment with you after we both graduate and get past our first shitty entry level jobs. I know my life as Spider-Man is crazy and unpredictable and you hate when I’m late and get concussions but I want to make this work. I promise I’ll try for you. I don’t know what my future will be like, but I want you to be in it. To... bake bread with you. Until we get it right.”

Her eyes are swimming with tears as he finishes his (off the cuff?) speech. She wants to say something equally romantic, and she should definitely say yes, but instead she says, “Did you just decide this after making the bread?”

“No,” he says, fishing his hand into his pocket, and pulling out a box. “I’ve been thinking about it for a while.”

“Oh my god, Peter,” she says, her voice thick as he goes down on one knee and pulls out the ring. The thing is, she’s been thinking about it too, unconsciously. The idea has been fermenting, in every kiss, every phone call, every time she wakes up in his arms or misses him when he’s away on Avengers missions.

“Will you marry me, MJ?” Peter asks, holding out the ring. It’s May’s ring. He’s absolutely serious about this. One hundred and ten percent.

“Yes. YES. A million times yes.”

It looks like his face is going to split wide open as he slides the ring onto her finger and rises to his feet, gathering her in his arms and spinning her around and around on the kitchen tile.

“Challah-lujah! Oh my god, _yes_!”

MJ is so breathless with happiness, caught up in the overwhelming feeling that she doesn’t even care that he made another fucking bread pun. She’s going to love him forever and always, and he’ll love her back.

Peter puts her back down and holds her face between his hands, kissing her all over as she laughs and holds onto his waist, fingers curling into his shirt, the modest but beautiful jewel on her finger a promise. She’ll have to take it off the next time they bake bread and she’s the one kneading the dough. But she doesn’t mind, because she’s looking forward to a next time. To every next time.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! <3


End file.
